As a mother of four, I am constantly juggling work, home life, and everything in between. My name is Sarah, and when I’m not managing real estate deals, I’m trying to keep my household running smoothly. My husband, Mark, works at a shipyard, and together, we raise four kids: 13-year-old twins Emma and Ethan, 12-year-old Lily, and our 8-month-old baby, Mia. We both work long hours—50 to 60 hours a week—but there’s one big difference: Mark gets weekends off, and I don’t.
For years, I’ve managed the household chores, trying to teach our kids to pitch in and take responsibility. But since Mia was born, it feels like everyone’s efforts have slowly disappeared—Mark included. I come home from work to find him lounging on the couch, phone in hand, while the kids are off doing their own thing—video games or makeup tutorials, but rarely anything that helps with the house.
The house isn’t filthy, but it’s always cluttered, and there’s one place that drives me absolutely insane—the kitchen. I’ve begged and pleaded for help so many times, but my requests were usually met with indifference. Over the years, I’ve tried everything: cutting off the internet, canceling family trips, grounding the kids, even having heated arguments with Mark. Nothing worked.
One particular weekend, I came home to yet another disaster in the kitchen—dishes piled up, food remnants scattered across the counters. I was done.
“Mark, I can’t keep doing this,” I said, my voice thick with frustration. “I come home every day to the same mess. What are you even doing all day?”
Mark glanced up from his phone, looking guilty, but also a little annoyed. “I work too, Sarah. I’m tired when I get home. I need to relax on the weekends.”
“And I don’t?” I snapped, throwing my hands up. “I work just as many hours as you, if not more! Yet somehow, I’m the only one who cares about the house being livable!”
Mark, now visibly irritated, stood up. “I do my part. But I also need a break.”
“A break?” My voice rose, sharper now. “I can’t even cook dinner without washing a sink full of dishes first! The kids have chores, you have chores—nothing gets done unless I nag everyone. I’m tired of being the bad guy!”
The tension between us kept building, each of us trying to defend our side, until it escalated. I was exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally, and this wasn’t about dishes anymore. It was about feeling like I was the only one taking responsibility for our home.
So, the next day, I had a clear expectation: when I got home from work, I wanted the chores done. I reminded Mark and the kids that morning before leaving. “You guys better have your chores done by the time I get home,” I said, knowing full well that they’d probably ignore me. But I said it anyway.
At 4:30 p.m., I texted Mark to ask what he wanted for dinner. I grabbed their requests at the grocery store, expecting everything to be taken care of when I got back.
When I walked in the door, I was met with the same frustrating scene—dirty dishes in the sink, laundry still in the washer, and Mark sitting on the couch, phone in hand, while the kids were hiding in their rooms.
I set the groceries on the table, packed a bag for Mia, and turned to Mark. “I’m going to Applebee’s,” I said, “Have at it.” He looked up, surprised. Without another word, I walked out the door with Mia.
About 20 minutes later, my phone rang. It was Mark.
“I washed the dishes. I’m sorry, I was just really tired today,” he said.
“You always say that!” I shot back, my patience stretched thin. “There are three older kids in this house with chores. You couldn’t even tell them to do anything?”
“I know, I’m sorry. Can you come home? I don’t know how to make dinner,” Mark asked, his voice almost pleading.
I was done. “It’s not hard to figure out. Google it or find a YouTube video. I’m at Applebee’s, enjoying my meal. You and the kids can figure it out. No, I’m not coming home.”
From the background, I could hear the kids begging, “Please bring us something from Applebee’s!”
“Absolutely not,” I said, firm as ever, and hung up.
When I came back home, I found the groceries put away, and the family had settled for a makeshift dinner of grilled cheese and cereal. The tension in the air was thick. Everyone sat at the table, looking uncomfortable.
“Listen up,” I said, standing tall and trying to keep my voice steady. “This is what happens every single time you don’t do your chores. You all get to deal with the consequences. No more excuses.”
Mark sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Sarah, we get it, but was it really necessary to leave like that? You could’ve just told us to get it done and we would have.”
“I *have* told you,” I said, frustration boiling over again. “Over and over. Nothing changes. I can’t be the only one who cares about this house. I can’t do it alone.”
Emma, one of the twins, pushed her food around on her plate, clearly guilty. “Mom, we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you.”
Lily, the 12-year-old, added quietly, “We didn’t think it was such a big deal. We thought you’d just remind us again.”
I felt a flash of guilt, but I pushed it aside. “It *is* a big deal. It’s not just about the dishes. It’s about all of us taking responsibility for our home. When I come home, I want to know I’m not walking into more work, especially when you guys have been sitting around all day.”
Mark leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. “I get it. I really do. But we can’t keep having these blowups. We need to find a better way to handle it.”
My anger flared again. “I’ve tried everything—talking, reminding, even nagging. Nothing works! I needed to show you all that I’m serious.”
Mark looked at the kids, then back at me. “Okay, we’ll do better. But can we agree to talk things through before it gets this bad again?”
I nodded, feeling a mix of relief and lingering frustration. “Yes, but only if everyone truly steps up. I can’t carry the load alone anymore.”
The kids nodded solemnly, and Mark reached across the table, taking my hand. “We’ll make it work, Sarah. We’ll all try harder.”
As I stood there, looking at my family, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had gone too far. Maybe. But I needed them to understand that something had to change. I hoped this was the wake-up call they needed. Only time would tell if the message finally sunk in.
